The Billionaire’s Late Regrets

Ever since we got back together, I fixed every bad habit Adrian hated.

"You didn't ask who texted me at midnight," Adrian said.

I kept my eyes on the September morning light filtering through the Central Park trees. "I figured it was work."

"It was."

"Okay."

The black Bentley glided down Fifth Avenue. I watched the golden reflections on the glass storefronts.

"You are being awfully quiet," he pressed.

"Just tired."

Adrian shifted in the driver's seat. His sharp brow bone caught the sun, turning his blue-gray eyes pale, almost translucent. He reached across the center console and flipped open the glove compartment to grab his sunglasses.

His fingers brushed against a small, square tube. It tumbled out and hit the leather divider.

A Chanel lipstick. True red.

It sat between us like a fresh wound.

Adrian slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched, throwing us both forward against our seatbelts. A cab behind us honked furiously.

He snatched the lipstick and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"The client dinner ran late last night," he said, his voice tight.

I smoothed the crease in my skirt. "You do not have to explain."

"Camille took a few shots for me," he pushed on, ignoring my response. "She was in no condition to drive. I dropped her off."

"That was nice of you."

He turned fully toward me. "She must have dropped it. I have no relationship with her, past, present, or future. You know that."

He stared at me, his gaze begging for a fight. He wanted the old Ava. The one who would scream, cry, and demand answers.

"I know," I said. "I believe you."

Adrian froze. The muscles in his jaw locked. He searched my face for a crack, a tremor of rage. He found nothing.

"You believe me?" he asked, sounding almost offended.

"Yes."

"Then why haven't you said a single word all ride?" he demanded. "You have been staring out the window like you are plotting a murder."

"I am just looking at the city."

"You are shutting me out again."

"I am really not," I said, keeping my tone perfectly even. "I just do not care about a lost lipstick."

I checked my watch. Boarding started in forty-five minutes.

"I have a massive presentation this morning," I said. "Just drop me at the next corner. I am running late."

His eyes narrowed. "You always get out at the next light."

"Traffic is awful today. I will walk."

"That is two kilometers from your building, Ava."

"The walk will wake me up."

He kept the doors locked. He leaned closer, his broad shoulders blocking the morning sun.

"It is barely eight in the morning," he said, his tone dropping into a harsh interrogation. "Where are you actually going?"

"To work."

"Look at me."

I met his pale eyes.

"You are lying," he said. "You are gripping your bag like someone is going to steal it. Where are you going?"

My pulse spiked. I mapped out the terminal gates in my head. I refused to let him see the panic.

"Unlock the door, Adrian."

"Not until you tell me why you are acting like this."

"I am acting fine."

"You are acting like a stranger." He reached for the strap of my tote. "What is in the bag?"

"Files."

"It looks heavy for just files."

I pulled it out of his reach. "Stop."

A pop song blasted through the tense air.

Not just any song. Camille's custom ringtone. The one she set on his phone herself, the one I had listened to a hundred times during our dinners, our dates, our quiet nights in.

Adrian's intense stare snapped away from me. He looked at the dashboard screen. The name flashed in bright white letters.

The fierce interrogator vanished.

"It is a work call," he said, clearing his throat.

He refused to look at me.

"I need to take this."

The heavy click of the door locks echoed in the cabin.

"You can get out here," he told me.

Five seconds ago, he was demanding the truth. Now, he just wanted me gone so he could answer her.

I grabbed my purse. As I moved, my hand brushed the red lipstick on the console. I scooped it into my palm and slipped it into my pocket.

"Ava, wait," he said, his voice softening into a practiced coax.

I paused with my hand on the door handle.

"I booked Le Bernardin for tonight," he said. "I know you have been wanting to go."

"You did?"

"I promised I would not miss any more milestones. I meant it."

He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind my ear.

"Happy seventh anniversary, Avie. See you tonight."

Last year, he left me at a corner table for three hours because Camille had a flat tire. The memory should have hurt. Instead, I felt entirely hollow.

"Answer it," I said.

"What?"

"Your phone. Do not keep her waiting."

I opened the heavy car door and stepped onto the curb. I shut it firmly and walked into the morning sun. I never looked back.

The airport terminal buzzed with rushing travelers and rolling suitcases.

"Passport and boarding pass, please," the gate agent said.

I handed them over.

"One way to Paris?" she asked, scanning the document.

"Yes."

"Checking any bags?"

"Just this carry-on."

"Have a wonderful flight, Ms. Davis."

"Thank you."

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows at Gate 42, staring out at the distant New York skyline.

Seven years.

I spent them waiting for him to finish meetings. Waiting for him to come home. Waiting for our anniversary to feel like more than an obligation.

Today, he could wait. He would sit at Le Bernardin tonight, checking his watch, wondering why I was not answering my phone.

I walked into the women's restroom. The bright fluorescent lights hummed above the sinks.

I pulled the Chanel lipstick from my pocket and set it upright on the cold marble counter.

I did not need to throw it away. I knew exactly why Camille left it in the car. It was a trap, a desperate bid to start a fight between us. She wanted me to scream at him.

I refused to play her game anymore.

Twenty minutes later, I sank into my window seat. The plane engines roared to life. We lifted off the tarmac, and Manhattan shrank into a tiny, glittering postcard below my window.

The crushing weight on my chest lifted. I was free.

I settled into my seat and slid my hand into my jacket pocket to grab my headphones.

My fingers brushed against foil.

I pulled out three handmade dark chocolates.

Adrian.

He always sneaked them into my coats after I fainted from low blood sugar two winters ago. It was a silent apology, a tiny gesture he never forgot.

I unwrapped one and placed it on my tongue. The rich sweetness melted instantly, curing the faint dizziness in my head.

Then, the bitter aftertaste hit the back of my throat.

I gripped the remaining two chocolates in my palm and stared out at the endless sea of white clouds.

He remembered my blood sugar, but he forgot how to love me.

How did seven years rot from the inside out?

The bitter taste lingered, dragging my mind back to the exact moment the cracks started to show. It all began with that stupid indie movie he refused to watch with me.